Yikes, Is that an Apocalypse?
by The-Turducken-Affairs
Summary: Lucifer has been let out of the Cage and the Apocalypse is on. Only, Sam's not the one who let him out. Sam's long gone and all of Heaven and Hell's plans are going haywire. The end of the world stops for no one though, and there are still heroes fixing to save us all. (Violence, swearing, AU for season 5, spoilers up to season 6) There's also some humor.
1. Prologue

**Disclaimer: Supernatural ain't mine.**

**Warnings: Swearing, violence, Season 5 au**

**A/N: Alright, so I'm really feeling this story and I'm hoping you guys will too. T**

**Also, I don't have a real clear idea on who all is going to be in this story, so the characters listed in the description will be updated accordingly within the next few chapters.**

**here's not much else to say at this point except...**

**Read, enjoy, review! :)**

* * *

Dean is circling him, hands held behind him and standing up straight and proper. Posed like that, Dean looks all the more impressive, looks like what everyone would see him as if Dean didn't pretend to be such a joke. He looks a little bit like Dad.

"You're such a disappointment. I raised you, learned everything the hard way just so that you could grow up slower. Grow up safer. But face it, I'm better and faster and stronger than you even when you took everything I had to offer."

"I'm sorry." It's all Sam can say. It's never enough.

Dean just shakes his head and goes for the door.

"Wait!" Sam says, jerking in place. Stopping, slowly looking back at Sam, Dean's face wars between disdain and patience.

Sam says, "I would do anything to change it. I _wish_ that I could, believe me. God, I would do _anything_."

Dean's eyes soften, before turning to a hollowed out sort of look. Bleak and real and back to disappointed.

He says, "I know," and Sam gets that nothing he can do is worth a damn thing. Not after everything that's gone down. Then, Dean walks out the door.

Sam is alone.

He's stuck in this room with only the whirring of the overhead fan as a constant and it's like an echo of pain is throbbing through his veins.

Time is passing- dragging, if Sam were to be poetic about it- slowly and then even slower.

The only thing that could be considered good about this is that he's not hearing whispers anymore. He's not seeing the room fill up with the ghosts of everyone he has wronged- his family, Jess, the ones he didn't save, the ones that were means to an end. Even without all that though, the silence presses in on him like a death sentence and he really doesn't like being alone.

Thing is, he's kind of starting to think that this is a death sentence. Everything hurts and his body is racked with bone breaking shudders. His pulse is racing. His mind is foggy, fearful.

The charged silence melts away when the door opens. His head jerks up and he's hoping it's Dean coming back to tell him they'll make it right and maybe even tell Sam it's not all his fault.

It's not Dean.

"Dad?"

And _Dad_ smiles, a haunted, watery grin. Just like the one from when he was alive.

"How are you even here?"

The smile is wiped from Dad's face and he opens his mouth.

Nothing comes out.

It's just Sam and him, staring at each other. Sam is hunched over, pathetically withered and power draining out of him like water from a broken pool. Waiting for Dad to say anything, to do something, Sam instead has to watch as Dad stands there with his mouth open and his body shaking, like he's restrained. Then he jolts forward, just once, and starts to make choking sounds.

"Dad!"

He falls to his knees, blood spreading from his gut and then he's fully on the ground, soundless still, but writhing.

"Dad!' Sam sobs out the name.

"_Sam,"_ he mouths back.

And then he's being torn apart.

Sam wants to turn away. He saw Dean die this way and things were never the same. He can't watch it happen again, but he can't not watch it either. He deserves this.

All the pain in the world, that's the only thing Sam should ever have. He's wretched, he knows, and he wishes for the one small mercy of not having his loved ones paraded in front of him, to not watch his father gutted. But that just brings him back to Point A again: he deserves this.

His infinity track mind is herded back to a linear, not jumbled path, when he hears the laughter. It's high pitched, like a female's voice and his father fades away, almost violently in its suddenness.

He's alone in the room again with just a single bloodied handprint from where his father was just a moment ago. Then, footsteps make their way to his room; leisurely and clicking.

The door opens- annoyingly slow and even if Sam's going through something right now, burying himself in guilt, a rising doubt of himself, and self-made tortures, he's still present enough to roll his eyes at the B-grade horror movie lead in.

Except, he has to mentally up his initial rating to A-grade, because it's Ruby and she's got a shitload of 'dirty laundry' she can dump on him. Also, the walls are starting to bleed and that's pretty freaky.

"Hey there, Dumbo," she greets him warmly, face lighting up with a softness he hasn't seen since before Dean came up topside.

"Ruby?" Sam asks, almost not hesitating and trying to hold back any hope that it really is her.

"You got it one, kiddo," she says, light and breezy.

A glob of blood falls onto her shoulder. She doesn't even really seem all that bothered by it, just brushes it off her shoulder with the flick of her hand.

"No, I'm still hallucinating," Sam argues. Because, really, Sam has known all along that this is all a byproduct of his crazy psychosis and detoxing (not that knowing that little fact has made any of this easier, because it's all based on truth and nightmares).

She smirks a little, more teasing than anything else, "You were hallucinating, I'll give you that. But now? Not so much. I'm _real_." She says 'real' like that makes her the most awesome person ever, the word formed by mouth and tongue, exaggerated in each part.

Not saying anything, Sam just stares sadly at her and the bloody walls.

She sighs, exasperated.

"How is it that fake Dean and fake Daddy got more of a reaction out of you than knowing that your ever loyal sidekick wasn't ganked by your psycho brother and his loyal angel pet?" She pauses, thoughtfully and then adds on, "Well, sort of ganked. I guess technically I'm already dead. You know, being a demon and all."

Sam looks at her, focuses all his guilt and pain and everything on her as he repeats, "You're not real." The blood starts to trickle down faster, pooling around the corners of the room.

She squints at him, like she's trying to see passed him and all that stupid in his noggin, but then just sighs and rolls her eyes like she doesn't see anything else in there.

"Whatever, Sammy." The blood spreads out from the corners, crawling closer.

"Sam." He feels several drips of blood fall on his head.

"Okay, don't care. I'm just here to warn you."

Sam just scoffs. She shoots him a glare and scoffs right back. The handprint starts to move, drags itself into the swarm of closing in blood.

"Seriously babe, you might wanna get over all of that delicious guilt and those hurt feelings of yours and get the hell out of dodge."

Curiosity being a majorly overriding characteristic of his personality, Sam relents, saying, "What?"

She walks up to him, bends down to eye level (because, as stated before, Sam has been hallucinating and that's pretty exhausting, so of course he's sitting down), and knocks on his head.

"Helloooo? Anyone in there?"

Sam leans away from her tiny, demonic fist. He catches a glimpse of the blood rising up from behind her, like a wave.

He studiously fixes his gaze back on Ruby and, feeling like a broken record because he's really not being a winner in this conversation at all, exasperatingly asks, "What?!"

Leveling him with a look, she pretty decently conveys, even more than she has already been doing, how stupid she thinks he is.

She claps her hands together and says in a condescending voice, "Okay! You know how there's an imminent threat of the apocalypse starting? Well, that kind of started like, oh I don't know, an hour ago! So yeah, I'm trying to warn you that that's a sure thing now and you're reeeeal close to the starting point of it."

The blood is several inches deep now, reaching Ruby's ankle.

She looks at him a little more seriously, says, "You might want to get out of here."

The blood rises another inch.

* * *

Not even a couple of hours ago, Bobby and Dean had been discussing Sam's fate as either Dean's human brother or apocalypse bait. Apparently, Sam's demon blood addiction was an _asset_. Not that that really matters right now.

Right now, Dean and Bobby are trying to survive the massive monster attack they went barreling headfirst into (in retrospect, they really didn't think this through) after having left the house to help out with the seriously alarming monster outbreaks Bobby kept getting phone calls from other hunters about. Dean heard about it on the news too, but what he heard was more along the lines of, "Massive power failure due to the fallen tree right behi- AHHHH!" and then the camera blacked out.

More specifically, Bobby is several feet away from Dean, but the distance seems even longer when there is an armament of monsters between them. The ground is slippery with monster and human guts alike, the surviving few continuing to fall to stronger opponents- because it's not just Dean and Bobby in this mess, but a whole lot of people and Dean can't help but think that, all in all, this is a pretty shitty day.

"We have to- Bobby, we have to go back!" Dean yells, entrenched in all out war and all the worse off for it.

Bobby gets in a swing, axe grinding against the skull of _something_ that leapt at him from the right. It makes him scowl, a visual showing as to how affronted he is that the thing thought it could get the jump on him.

He yells back to Dean, "How the hell are we going to do that ya idgit?"

There is another long pause between intervals as Dean slays his own slew of adversaries. He is mildly more gung ho about letting 'em die bloody and painful and it shows. He's surrounded by live, kicking, and screaming (like a battle cry, but distinctly not human and pretty offsetting) monsters, but he's even more surrounded by dead monsters, smashed up and oozing bone.

"I don't care! Make way for me or I'm going alone!"

Dean does clue Bobby in on what he's planning, but he doesn't really give Bobby any time to react. Even as Dean yells the warning to Bobby, he's already headed back towards the Impala. The fact is that they totally had to abandon her or be swarmed by even more monsters than they're dealing with now. Dean's the kind of guy who doesn't let a little fact like that discourage him.

"Dean!" Bobby pulls that holler from the pit of his belly, incredulous and resonating through their newly adopted battle ground. Of course, Dean doesn't listen, not even a little bit, so Bobby has no choice but to back up the idgit's damned fool plan.

"Dammit Dean," he mutters- one curse among many as he slaughters a path back to the _hot rod_ and his car. Bobby hacks himself a cleared path, ignoring all the poor bastards stuck in this mess, because they've been fighting for too long with too many new monsters popping up for their presence to mean a damn thing anyways.

Dean is already leaning against the car when Bobby gets there and he says, "About time. Seriously Bobby, did you even eat your Wheaties today?"

He looks super relaxed, like they aren't on a time crunch, but he's not. He's tensed and scanning the area for a clear driving path as Bobby sits his geezer rear down in the passenger seat. When the act of Bobby-butt to Impala-seat connection is complete, Dean thrusts the Impala into gear all while swinging himself into the driver's seat.

Bobby just huffs, crosses his arms a little bit, and says, "We gonna drive or am I gonna have to listen to you cobble some words together in hopes that something that comes out of your mouth makes sense?"

Dean does think of an array of things he could say to respond, but then he hears screeching from behind them and really doesn't want to know what it is. So instead, he hauls major ass to get them out of there.

Knowing that something's going down and there's gonna be a lot of death at hand, he can't help but wince. Even so, the priority right now, the 'this is the only thing we can do because if not I'm gonna pull all of my hair out until I ugly myself to death' course of action, is to go save Sam- his unfortunately locked up, damsel in distressed little brother.

* * *

Sam doesn't know when Ruby left, or when the silence became a roar of white noise, but that's what happened.

Being alone, isolated within the ironed confines of one's own hick version of a detox clinic would have been preferable. As it is, Sam can only squeeze his eyes shut and remind himself that all the noise, the screeching and the blood that's going to drown him soon, is not actually real.

He gives an experimental, "It's not real," but chokes on the "not" because the _not real_ blood is at mouth level. Of course, Sam is still sitting down (so sue him, Sam would wager that most people don't think well in the midst of sweating out their demon blood habit and seeing dead people), so that does give him a little hope that standing up will stop him from drowning in hallucination blood.

Unfortunately, the blood is not the only problem. There is also the little problem of some sort of monster pile up going on outside the panic room. He can tell because the house is quaking, the monsters are making monster like noises, and Sam is a hunter.

The other thing that is unfortunate is that Sam is a sitting duck. He can't run, hide, escape, or do any other proactive activities to protect himself from the threat of horrible self-destructive brain activity.

When the door opens again, he hopes maybe it's fake Moses, here to part the red sea. It's not.

Standing in front of the doorway is this strange… monster? He's never seen anything like it, but it looks a little bit dead, like it's decaying, but it also looks a little bit on fire, like it's on fire. It rushes Sam and bowls him over. That's when Sam starts to think that not everything he's seeing is a hallucination. That's also when the panic room breaks out into chaos, blood and flame monsters and blood again.

Sam can't but think that maybe he's in a little over his head.

Then, the blood bursts forward, one final knockout, flooding what might just be the entire house.

* * *

"Dammit Dean, watch the road!" This is Bobby's sensible response to Dean's swerving, curving driving job.

"Can it Bobby!" This is Dean's less than stellar and completely not helpful response.

They have been driving towards Bobby's house, Dean constantly jerking the car to avoid potholes and creepy things, except for when he does not avoid the creepy things. Those times, Dean gets this crazed grin on his face as he pumps the gas to better head on collide with monsters that Bobby can only speculate Dean doesn't like the looks of. Apparently, Bobby is a close personal friend to a select few, namely nut jobs.

Bobby has made his peace with this little fact, up until the point when Dean drives off the road, across a patch of not so good looking dead body parts, and onto another road.

"Would you quit sticking me with your death wish and drive?"

"We've got to get there faster. Bobby, we're gonna save him!" Dean argues, but he sticks to wheeling along on actual road. For now.

A few more insults, offered driving concerns, and suggestions as to what to do with oneself (such as, put a sock in it) later and Bobby can see his house.

Shit.

The restrained tension that they buried with banter, the delayed fear for Sam, all of that is back, because Bobby can only tentatively call what he sees now his home.

It's more of the remains of a massacre than it is a place to keep coming back to. As with most things horrible, there is blood. Plenty of it. But there's also flames eating away at the walls, at Bobby's front door and the first line of cars in his car dump.

"SAM!" Dean roars, louder and somehow more everything.

Dean's speed walking, then he's jogging, then he's running and Bobby watches each transition in slow motion. Each beat of his heart matches the next step Dean takes until all Bobby can see is red.

Then Bobby goes after Dean.

Dean is trying to get into Bobby's not home, dig his way through fallen beams and pounds of ashen, mushed up books, but he can't. Heat and sparks just keep growing, blocking off all things living. But, that's not quite right, because Sam's inside. He'll just wait out disaster, sitting pretty and waiting for Bobby and Dean to let him out. Nothing can break down the panic room, so he's got to still be alive.

Bobby can't let Dean go prove that fact though, because he would incinerate himself before he reached the panic room.

"Dean. Dean!" Bobby calls Dean a few times, but nothing stops the bodily pull of 'must save Sam.' Only Bobby can do that, and he does. He reaches for Dean, wrapping an arm around the corded muscle, the solid adrenalized form of Dean and drags him back as far as Bobby's strength allows.

In a matter of seconds, Bobby has knocked Dean out, because, at this point, Dean is just a senseless wind up doll of 'go to Sam', 'go to Sam', 'go…

All Bobby can do is put Dean in the back of the Impala and sit on the hood, loaded gun at the ready by his side and a knife held tight in his hand.

He watches his house get eaten away by the end of the world, waiting for flames to die out so he can go get Sam from the single safest damn place Bobby knows.


	2. The Girl, the Flamer, and the Wendigo

**Disclaimer: Supernatural ain't mine.**

**Warning: I seem to have developed the bad habit of using a gratuitous amount of "ain't"s. Also, my potty mouth may have begun to make an appearance. Let's just call it the end of the world and say there's not much left to lose.**

**A/N: I'm still deciding which characters to add to the description. Just an fyi.**

**Read, enjoy, review! :)**

* * *

**Chapter One: The Girl, the Flamer, and the Wendigo**

* * *

_Nine Months Later_

She left the Center early. Of course, she _is_ an early bird and she's well aware of what happens to early birds such as herself; they get the worm.

That's why she's here. The middle of the woods, rifle cocked and aimed skyward (she sure as all hell ain't no tool, not anymore at least), and ambling along. Well, not quite. See, she does actually have an idea of what she's doing, a purpose or a goal, you might say. She ain't just walking out here, alone and vulnerable to attack, for the scenery.

Tomorrow she's meant to join in on the hunt and maybe she doesn't like her odds in that. She's a little on the smaller side, a little bit of a lopsided shooter. Best chance for her is to plant her feet and take a shot where she stands. None of that shooting moving targets shit she hears the boys back at the Center yammering about.

"Alright," she mentally cheers, because she's got all her ducks in a row and there it is, not even six yards ahead and bent over some dead thing in a bush.

Flamer. Well, that's what they call 'em back at the Center. She's been all over and knows others have a liking for calling them anything ranging from "Mother's Bastards" to "Combustible Haulers" to not even bothering to name it, just calling it a "monster" like it's exactly the same as all the other ones out there.

Personally, she doesn't care as long as she can put a bullet in its head.

Biting her lip, focusing herself like a goddamn artist of consecrated bullets, she flips off the safety and brushes the trigger, gentle and then squeezing once she's got her bearings.

Timber.

Without letting down her guard or the gun, she creeps towards the thing to make sure it's dead and not just in a bullet induced nap. Kick it first then turn it over, and yep. It's definitely dead. She can tell by the way its veins are pulsing, probably its blood fighting to get in one last tour around the thing's cardiovascular system.

She likes to watch them die.

No, really. It's not as psycho as it sounds.

There's a little thing called magic- or, well, it's more like the world is filled with supernatural phenomena and she just prefers the term magic. Like this is a Disney Princess boot camp spanning the rest of her life and not the end of the world. Anyways.

It's the magic that kills monsters. Not that it means anything, more of a whole circle of life thing, because it's also magic that brings them into existence. But, she ain't never seen one born. Just dead and dying.

It's beautiful.

These things, these disgusting, bloodthirsty things that see fit to make themselves comfortable all across the world- they blaze with glowing blood right before their "hearts" or whatever give out. Then they shrivel up until they're travel size, but it's more like their skin is crawling, swirling around and around until they shrink, smaller than they ever were in life.

Her gruesome little habit (watching death) is broken though, when there is shrill ringing off in the distance.

"Shit!"

That shrill ringing off in the distance is a signal that the rounds are finished and everyone in the Center is going to be not so distracted in about five minutes. That means she's got to make it back before anyone realizes that she skipped out. She can only imagine what they'd say if they found out she killed something today, so she could pretend it's her kill on tomorrow's hunt.

They'd shake their heads and say it's not a competition, it's just them all working together to make the Center safer. She knows better though. The more of these things you kill, the more valuable you are and the more likely it is they'll send you on a mission.

She runs back towards the center.

* * *

"Did you hear about the one with the girl, the Flamer, and the Wendigo?"

"No. Tell it to me."

"Okay, here it is, all laid out for you. She's a little thing, a little wider around the hips and ample in the chest. You know, a real purty one. So yeah, she's got these dreams to be one of the guys, to go out on missions and help out. She wants to see to the end of the end of the world and she's got no better plan than to sneak out early one day."

"Ahuh. What's your point?"

"So, she goes out and finds herself a Flamer."

"Shit, she's a little cheat, ain't she?"

"You betcha! And the irony of irony is, she does shoot the thing down, but she's flagged down herself on her way back. See, she got caught by a Wendigo! A- and," he bursts into a fit of chuckles. Breathing ragged and reeking of cigarettes and booze, just like all the other poor bastards not dealing too well with their very own apocalypse. But yeah, he finds this awful funny and can't seem to get the words out.

Finally, he's able to shove the rest of his story in between snorts of laughter, "And then it's a monster-human sandwich. She's stuck between killing monsters and getting killed by monsters. But if that ain't rich enough, the Center is real upset about it. See here, that's why I called ya over. They asked for you personally to go out and kill the bastard and bring back what's left of the little lady."

"Son of a bitch Harris, you know I don't have time for this shit right now."

He shrugs, arms wide and chest open, unguarded. "Just sending along the message. You do what you feel like. Not like I'd ever be the one out there looking for her carcass."

"Dammit. Fine. Tell them I'll friggin' do it. But! I'm gonna be real upset if there's no pie waiting for me when I get back."

The man is back to being a hollering, riotous mess of choking on spit and laughter. "You have a real strange way of payment, don't yah? I'll make sure they make a pie for their homecoming hero. Now get out of here before I haveta shoot a brother in the ass. And don't forget that finding ladies in my bar is fine, but screwing them on one of my tables is why I have nightmares."

"See yah, Harris."

"Yeah, yeah. Get lost, Dean Pain in my Battle Torn Ass Winchester!"

Dean grins, one foot out the door and says, "You ain't never seen a day of battle in your whole life, you yellow bellied coward!"

Then Dean's tearing out of there, a bottle of the world's finest scotch (read: distilled bird piss) hitting the spot where his head was a single second ago.

* * *

Dean's got no choice but to go to the Center. Fifty miles away, even using back roads, and he's got no excuse for not making it within the hour.

Now, it's not that he hates the Center; it's just that he doesn't much care for the Center. Sure, they're keeping order and give entrance to absolutely everyone, but something about giving guns to every civilian with a bleeding heart makes his skin crawl. Probably the fact that the untrained are teaching the untrained about gun safety and "trigger happy" isn't so much something to worry about as it is a guarantee… and okay, still something to worry about.

Dean's been through war, but this is something else entirely. It's like that saying… What was it? Guns don't kill people, people kill people? Well sure, maybe. But, Dean would be willing to bet they both do a pretty good job.

Back to it though. He's got his gear- ignitable weaponry, guns and rounds, sharp things to poke with, and a handy dandy book full of sigils and notes.

And yes. He is headed towards the Center, if only to confirm his pie order, and then he's going to take a fun life risking trek into the wilderness, where he's sure to find the things that go bump in the night.

* * *

Night is rising. The moon and its craters cast yellow, tinting the dark; sickly. Overhead, the ground looks desolate- a wasteland of castaway carcasses and the only thing alive is fungus, sucking up death like daiquiris in the spring.

This is the perfect place for a meeting.

A checkered, pleated pants man, whose coat is of a similarly dreadful design, steps over the mounds of limbs and eaten away guts. The yellow hues here seem to fit him well, making him sicker and wrong. He holds a briefcase, smoother and sleeker than it ought to be, in his right hand. His left hand is gripping a neck of which belongs to a captured chess piece, whose knees are pressed into the ground.

"I have something that may be of interest to you."

The man, let's call him the Trader as he does seem so inclined to make a trade, stands in place as he waits. There is not a spark of awareness nor a change in atmosphere, nothing to hint at reaction, so he tries again.

"Now, now. No need to play hard to get. I'm well aware of how valuable _this_," and he signifies just what _this_ is with the jerk of his left hand and the cutting off of his chess piece's airway. "is to you. Best not keep me waiting."

Now, he feels a rustling of air. It's the sign he was waiting for.

"I assume I have your attention? Then let's begin. I have a trade in mind."

He releases the chess piece with a shove, its face digging into the ground and dirt being disturbed by something for the first time since the beginning of the end. Then, he unclasps the briefcase, opening it only to produce a pile of papers.

Ah yes; paperwork. This will take a while.

* * *

If there is anything Dean hates more than cases involving more trees than places to kick back and have a beer, it's an overly cheery guide wearing shorts.

For some reason, Boy Scout here doesn't seem to have gotten the memo that they're in the middle of an apocalypse. He's been perfectly happy to talk out loud to no one (Dean sure as hell isn't listening) for the past hour. If it weren't for the fact that Boy Scout knows these woods "_like the back of my own freckled hands! Did you know that freckles are God's way of telling us he loves us? I'm sure you know exactly what I mean_," Dean would have walked the other while Boy Scout was rambling about his mother's green pea casserole.

"Are we there yet?" Dean asks, again.

So far, this has been Dean's coping mechanism: He's found that while most things perk Boy Scout's interest and only serve to encourage him to talk about flowers and old ladies and what have you, there are a few key phrases that seem to greatly annoy him when repeated often enough. One of them is "Are we there yet?" Another is "I bet you'd probably still fit in a locker… even though you are a full grown man."

"No," Boy Scout says. Dean can see a vein in the back of Boy Scout's neck throb a little bit. Damn, it doesn't beat Dean's personal record.

"We still have about two more miles to go." There is definitely a hysterical note to the pep infused into that answer. Dean would bet Harris's bar on it.

Right now, Dean is in the middle of nowhere (something he's used to) and traveling to even deeper in the middle of nowhere. Mother Nature is all around him and he can't help but think that this is still better than when he made his pit stop back at the Center. At least here he's not on the receiving end of a million creepy stares.

When Dean had arrived at the Center, it was as if he had a sign taped on his back that said, "Hi, my name is Murderous Psychopath. I'm from out of town and I like to kick puppies!" Paranoid though he may be, he's no match for the paranoia of a congregation of normal day folks who found out monsters were real less than a year ago and only recently acknowledged that they might have to be killers if they want to live. Dean also didn't fail to count ten people cleaning guns, at least three of them missing teeth or fingers, on his way to meet the big head honcho.

People, dude. They're crazy (and going crazy).

Dean had walked through the valley of the shadow of death and met up with the head honcho. He was a real religious guy. Seemed to think God had plans for all of them, one of which was for humanity to outlive the Apocalypse. Dean thinks his name was… Pastor Gideon? Well, whatever. Not really Dean's concern. All Dean had needed was to get an idea of what the girl, _Carmen _as the Pastor called her, was like- what she looked like, where she might have snuck out to- and then he was good to go.

So, now, here he is. Some more time has passed and now he's… how many miles closer are he and Boy Scout to where they're going?

Must be time to ask again.

"Are we there yet?"

**SOL**

They are, finally, coming up to where the last sign of Carmen's presence was tracked to.

Dean's several feet behind Boy Scout and getting more cautious as they get closer. Boy Scout does not seem to share the same sensibilities. Instead, he's tromping along forest floor, rustling leaves and snapping branches underfoot.

"_Pft, civilians," _Dean can't help but think. Then he calls out, "Boy Scout!"

Dean gets a glare for that. He probably deserves it, having been told the guy's name at least four times. Ah well.

"You want to be monster bait?!"

Boy Scout answers, "What are you talking about? Isn't the Wendigo supposed to be… distracted right now?"

Wow. He's a regular genius. "Maybe, maybe not. Sometimes Wendigos like to hoard their food, go out and find more of it to store for tough times. So you? Right now? You're out in the open and a prime target for the any monster with the daytime munchies."

And Boy Scout looks like he's got his sense knocked back into him, as he hustles back to Dean's side.

He asks, "What should I do?"

Dean, well, he's a hunter and a leader and quite used to bossing people around. He lays it out for Boy Scout, telling him to stay put and watch their things. He talks a little bit about Wendigos and monsters in general as he puts up protective sigils and then, because it's still high noon since Boy Scout isn't a complete bonehead and was ready early, heads off to scout the area.

Dean does not go directly towards where Boy Scout was headed, as that area is clearer than the rest of the woods and not filled with too many hiding spots. Instead, he circles around, searching for clues and narrowing the search by following a route of a closing-in spiral not unlike a police search might do. Strangely, there's not much in the way of evidence that a Wendigo was around.

Last place to check is the clearing.

First though, better check up on Boy Scout before he gets too fidgety and decides to take a peek for himself, maybe thinking something along the lines of, _well, it can't hurt. I won't be long._

As Dean makes his way back, pushing through some brush, he calls out, "Hey Boy Scout. The area's empty; no Wendigo here to take a bite out of your ass."

Except, he gets to where all the supplies and sigils are and there's no Boy Scout.

"Son of bitch," Dean mutters, looking around.

Dean has no idea here Boy Scout went off to. Wendigo probably picked him off with the sound of his Grandma crying or something and the tool fell for it. Then again, maybe Boy Scout just has a small bladder.

Dean wishes. That's not his luck though. His luck is the kind where you hold a gun in one hand and some holy water in the other and you're still knocked out, only to awaken to the wonderful feeling of being trussed up.

"Boy Scout?!" Dean yells. If the Wendigo got the kid, it'll already know Dean's here. No need to be subtle.

_Son of a bitch_. Dean has to go check out the clearing, doesn't he?

So that's exactly what he's gonna do. At least this time around, he's got some supplies and not just a baggie of peanut M&Ms.

**SOL**

When Dean struts into the clearing, bravado and flamethrower at the ready, he's met by a familiar face.

"Boy Scout! What the hell, dude? I was calling for you!"

Boy Scout stares at him and, for one precious second, looks concerned. But then that looks melts away and Dean is met with a smirk. Long and hateful; hair-raising and Dean knows he's in some kind of trouble.

"Aw man. What are you?" Dean asks, hoping that for once, the monster of the week will be straightforward.

"I'm not a monster if that's what you're thinking."

"Not a monster my ass. I don't care how human you look; no use blowing hot air up my ass."

The "not monster" raises an eyebrow at that, quirks another grin at Dean. "Why Dean, I didn't know you were such a poet."

This makes Dean pause for a moment, which, incidentally, actually gives him a moment to think through all the facts. What isn't a monster, looks like a human, and enjoys a nice round of repartee?

Shit. "You're a demon, aren't ya?"

"Took you long enough."

And then all Hell breaks loose. Again.

* * *

If there is anything Dean hates more than an overly cheery guide wearing shorts, it's a demon who pretended all morning to be an overly cheery guide wearing shorts.

"You know," Dean says, right before he blocks another blow from demon #2, who had come out of the woodwork (heh, wood) after Dean's and Demon Boy Scout's little chat.

"You guys," and then Dean is blocking a blow from Demon Boy Scout.

"Are really- oof," this time, Dean is on the receiving end of a good, hearty punch to the stomach. He shakes it off, and then he's fighting again, swinging and using the knife he had stored in his boot. He's dumped the flamethrower, as it is not actually helpful. A flamethrower just turns demons in meat suits into _on fire_ demons in meat suits.

"Starting to get on my nerves!" Dean finishes dramatically, stabbing demon #2 in the throat. Demon #2 falls and doesn't get up.

Oops. Did he forget to mention the knife in his boot is the demon-killing knife?

He can't help but throw a gloating grin at Demon Boy Scout. What Dean doesn't expect is for Demon Boy Scout to merely return the grin.

The reason for the returned grin, unfortunately, makes sense after Demon Boy Scout says, "What? You thought that was it? You thought that for all of the trouble we went through to get Dean Winchester here, that we'd only send in two demons?"

Spreading his arms grandly, Demon Boy Scout throws his head back and laughs. This gives Dean enough time to rush the jackass and stab him right in his smug chest.

For a second, Dean's back to feeling triumphant. Then he hears the white noise and realizes he's surrounded.

Flamers.

**SOL**

Through a fantastical feat of fast thinking and climbing trees only to jump out of them and into other trees, Dean stops himself from being surrounded by Flamers and dying a gruesome death of being on fire and his skin peeling off. However, this is not a permanent thing, because he's still being chased by Flamers.

All Dean can do is run, hope some part of his situation changes, and then run some more.

He's in for a tough day.

* * *

Scrambling over a giant friggin' boulder in the middle of possibly the worst camping trip ever, Dean can tell he's on his last leg.

Seriously, he's been performing acrobatics just to get away from these stupidly flammable sons of bitches. For the last what he can only assume has been a million centuries (actually a little closer to a few hours, but if anyone is deserving of slack when it comes to estimating time right now, it's Dean), Dean has been hurdling over logs and diving under holes in shrubbery and fighting his burger induced extra weight (they are not love handles, god dammit) in order to climb up _another_ tree.

For just one second, _one second_, he stands on top of the boulder he just scaled. If he's going to fight against Flamers and his lungs, he needs a break from at least one of them. Seeing as only one of these things is set on dismembering him while he's on fire, he's going to give his lungs a break.

"Dean."

Dean definitely does not startle, nor does he let out a small, _manly_ eep, but he is surprised. Standing deep within his bubble of personal space is Castiel.

"C- Cas, so glad that you c- could make it." Dean tries to shoot off his mouth with scathing sarcasm, but his gasps for air every few seconds does wonders in undermining this goal.

Cas tilts his head, like a curious falcon or an infant, and says, "I always answer your prayers."

"Couldn't have come sooner? Maybe before I popped a lung?"

Gifted with a great many of skill sets, but sarcasm not being one of them, Castiel is greatly concerned, and touches a finger to Dean's sweaty, slick forehead.

"While you do seem to be in a state of discomfort, your lungs are fine. Dean."

Dean rolls his eyes, and then their homely discussion is finished, because the Flamers begin to make their way around the bend of trees Dean had passed minutes ago.

"Cas, you going to do something about the Flamers?" Eyes widened and mouth tight, Dean holds back his alarm as he asks.

"Yes."

The next thing Dean sees is the forest fading away and then calming, heavenly whiteness.

* * *

"Here's the _homecoming hero_ back again. I bet yer aiming to mooch off a celebration drink, ain't ya?"

"Hey Harris," Dean tiredly mutters, an arm swiping at the air in what is closer to a wave than his words were to audible. Castiel follows. Clearly, Castiel has done a sufficient job of angel zapping them both away from the horde of Flamers. Luckily for Dean, they appeared outside a bar.

"Who's yer friend?"

"I am an Angel of the Lord."

"Wow. Nice job you got for yerself."

"His name's Cas."

"I think I like the first thing he said," Harris smiles and adds on dreamily, "An Angel of the Lord."

Harris is the kind of man who asks a lot of questions, but doesn't believe a single thing he hears. He's more of an open ear for any kind of crazy that walks into his bar and his tip jar is grateful for it. Funny enough, of all the things that the Apocalypse has laid to waste, a money system ain't one. Greed is the green colored mistress of human nature and humans are still up and kicking. For now.

"What can I get for you two?"

Dean and Cas are sitting at the corner seats of the bar, leaning towards each other.

Not tearing himself away from the conversation, Dean says absently, "The strongest thing you got. Two of them for Cas."

Harris says nothing, but serves them up a copious amount of alcohol and makes himself scarce on their side of the bar.

Dean is tired. He has growing shadows under his eyes, his fingers are hardwired to makes fists, and he's strung out. Dean just wants answers and, for tonight, Cas says he'll give them. Cas is true to his word.

They also drink a lot of alcohol, even though Dean is the only one who will wake up with a hangover tomorrow.

* * *

What Dean learns is a series of game changers and at the same time, not anything that makes much of a difference in reality.

Dean's been seeing monsters pop up more and more often as the months go by. He's even seen some new ones. Mostly though, it's just the Flamers. Today, it became apparent that demons are still a force to be reckoned with.

What Cas has to add to all this is that Dean is important. Well, not so much Dean, as Dean Winchester.

In a less than delicate delivery, Cas had explained, "You and your brother were meant to be archangel vessels. The Winchester bloodline marked you both. You were to be Michael's, while Sam was to be Lucifer's."

Cas had the good grace to pause and give Dean times to process. Not for long though.

"Just as the rest of Heaven is unsure, there is no one who knows what will happen now that the prophecy can't be fulfilled. Hell and Heaven are both in disarray, but today's attack on you has shown that you are still of interest to them. It is possible that they think we will still use you as Michael's vessel."

"So… Heaven doesn't want me to be an angel condom?"

"_Dean_."

Dean is unapologetic, as shown by him rolling his eyes and chugging back his drink, and pushes Cas for more details.

"Well?" Dean wheedles.

Cas stares for a little bit longer at Dean without saying anything in what Dean assumes is a silent show his Cas's disapproval, but eventually continues, "No. Heaven wants to follow Father's plan. That means that both Michael and Lucifer must have their vessels."

At this point, Dean sighs heavily, and says, "Dammit Cas. Why didn't you tell me any of this earlier?"

Simply put, "I was not of ranking to know it."

"And now?"

"To put in terms you might relate to, Heaven doesn't know its ass from its elbow." Cas takes a swig, which is more of a never ending inhalation of his drink, and stares morosely at nothing.

For a second, Dean looks impressed with Cas, until he can't help but think back to reality. Glumly, he asks, "But demons are still after me?"

"Yes."

"Awesome."

To top it off, Dean still has to go back to the Center and tell them their girl got attacked by a demon. More awesome.

* * *

The moon is drooping from its place in the sky, taking sickly yellow with it. In its stead is a hopelessly red horizon. The Trader stands in the lighting up of day, signing the final piece of paperwork with a stroke of finality.

The terms of negotiation are put to rest, unshakeable and final, when the Trader says, "I'd say that about does it."

Then he snaps his fingers and his chess piece disappears. Leering upward and sky bound, the Trader gives his final farewell.

"Pleasure doing business with you."


	3. The Tooth Fairy Killer and His Mentor

**Disclaimer: Supernatural ain't mine. **

**Warning: Systematically insulting America with stereotypes based on the directions on a compass. Prostitution is legal in Nevada, with regulations and blah, blah, blah. Vague spoilers for season 7, but nothing that would ruin season 7 for you.**

**A/N: Once in a while, I will borrow some quotes from the show. Some quotes will be written the same, word for word, while others will be rearranged so they make sense within the context. The reason why I am doing this is because this story may be an AU, but all of the elements and rules of Supernatural still apply. I want to show the parallelism between the real version and this AU, as well as tie in some of the events from the real Supernatural (even if the events go down a bit differently because the circumstances are different). Rest assured though, this is in not just a repeat of the real Supernatural. After all, if you wanted a repeat of the show, you'd re-watch the show. Which, by the way, you should because Supernatural is amazing.**

**Read, enjoy, review! :D**

* * *

The Impala eats up road like Dean eats up burgers. Fast and without chewing- which is actually pretty much exactly true, if gas guzzling is equated to chewing. What that means is that Dean got an angelically pimped ride and now his baby is a lean, mean, grace-eating machine. Of all the things Castiel could be putting his energy into, you bet your ass one of them is Impala maintenance. Seriously, it's the end of the world and the gas prices are worse than that.

For this exact, maybe just a little bit convoluted, reason, Dean is free to go where he wants and is unhindered by pesky "laws of physics" (laws are for square and Dean is a rebel for life, viva la whatever).

Right now, Dean is going west, where the girls are tan and the coast is littered with the remains of a million bottled waters and Starbucks cups. He's pretty friggin' sick of the South, where the Center is and there are, if he's being generous, about two people with good sense. Hicksville after Hicksville, moonshine, too much wildlife, and Dean is done.

There's also the fact that he heard some new age demon activity is burbling up in Nevada. Having been previously attacked by a demon and its cult of Flamers, Dean's more than ready to slice up some bitches.

And then there's the fact that prostitution was legal in Nevada before the end of the world. He can only imagine the opportunities now.

Everything's coming up Dean.

* * *

Absolutely nothing is going Bobby's way.

Now, Bobby ain't much for complaining, but if you reach the point where you're over forty and are living in a tree, you know you're life ain't heading in the right direction.

Okay, so that's not entirely accurate. Technically, Bobby is supposed to be occupying a tent, which is still in its spot twenty feet away and to the left of the tree he's in. _However_, he's spent three days in this tree, so at this point, he figures he might as well switch mailing addresses.

Here's what happened.

He had just finished a hunt involving a haunted bush and a weepy ghost who was still upset about how "the hottest guy in my high school totally, like, dumped me in front of my cool friends." Long story short, she died after going into the woods for a night of drinking away her troubles and then being attacked by a wild animal. It had, apparently, looked "so ca-yute and totally had the same spiritual vibe as my cat, Mittens, except it was way big."

The salt-and-burn case didn't take long, but it was late afternoon and he figured he might as well spend the night in the woods. After all, what would be the harm?

Right.

In the middle of the night, he had heard hollering and came out of his tent just in time to see a tall, gawky boy running in his direction. Behind the kid was a group of eleven flamers.

So here he is, three days later and thinking that at least he's found the perfect pine coffin. Also, there's the boy. Who is still alive and kicking. Literally, he just has these sporadic kicking spasms. The idgit had ran through a bramble bush, which seems to have had lasting effects; something to do with the kid trying to shake off all of the thorns covering the lower half of his body.

Bobby's beginning to think the kid is used to these sorts of experiences. Bobby on the other hand, he's pretty sure that if the Flamers don't kill them, the kid will talk him to death.

At this moment, this very serious moment where life and death are at standstill and waiting to see who wins, the kid is telling Bobby about his first hunt (and oh yeah, the kid's a _hunter_).

"So then I realized it was either him or me. Man, I felt terrible when I had to kill that S.O.B."

Bobby really wishes he weren't here right now. This kid is the saddest sack of sad Bobby's ever met and he's known a lot of hunters in his time. Worse, the idgit seems to think that Bobby being trapped here means that the kid has Bobby's attention, while his silence only serves to encourage the kid.

"Yeah, man. I mean, not my proudest moment, but it happened."

The kid just confessed to having killed the tooth fairy. It sort of makes Bobby want to lean backwards until he falls out of the tree.

All in all, the only possible thing Bobby can say to all of this is, "How in the hell are you still alive?"

**SOL**

"What if we jump out of the tree and then run really fast?"

"You go on and try that. I'll be sure to remind the Flamers to burn your bones while they're at it," Bobby says blandly.

The kid's eyes widen with a sort of awed realization and Bobby half thinks that any second the brainiac will say "ooooh" like everything makes sense now. _Idgit_.

"What if we make a decoy to distract them?"

"Great idea, you know anyone within the vicinity with a death wish?"

The kid considers this for a moment, and then looks sheepish as if maybe, just maybe, he picked up on the fact that Bobby wasn't serious. _Idgit._

"What if…"

Bobby really wishes his flask hadn't come up dry yesterday. He needs a drink.

* * *

Sleep is a rule to live by these days. Night comes before Dean hits Nevada and he has to stop for some shut eye. Things aren't the same anymore, haven't been for a long time, and Dean can't just soldier through by the seat of his pants and a cocksure grin.

It's always been touch and go, one mistake might be your last, and you could die even if you line all your coats in salt. But survival is more and more about precision and attention nowadays. Sure, random things still happen, but it's not like you're walking around, minding your own business, when a flock of Flamers just 'sneaks up' on you. No way. Those suckers are loud- they groan and hiss, the flame parts of their body crackle, their feet scuffle along. Only way you can miss them is if you're preoccupied, surrounded by loud noises, or deaf.

Apparently, thinking you're hunting a Wendigo when demons and Flamers are in cahoots against you can also make you miss the obvious.

Dean has to be more cautious- he sure as hell knows better and can think of at least a few people who wouldn't hesitate to smack that fact along with some common sense back into him.

He really let the ball drop on that hunt. Hell, he doesn't even look for signs of demon possession anymore. Somehow he figured the end of the world must have meant something had to let up. As in, we've got Flamers and monster infestations now, but at least the demons are hiding under rocks.

Stupid.

* * *

The two of them smell like daisies, if the daisies mentioned had just been sprayed with garbage and then left out in the sun for a few days. Bobby scratches absently at his face, and almost expects his finger to come away with a film of second skin, like he's a damned snake shedding dead skin and sweat. They haven't showered or brushed their teeth in days and do not even ask about the specifics of how they deal with their other bodily functions.

Again, Bobby wants a drink more than he's ever wanted anything in his whole life. He wishes his flask was full, he wishes trees sprouted bottles of whiskey instead of leaves, he wishes oxygen was gin. He wishes so hard he almost thinks he will spontaneously be absorbed into a brave, new world of all the booze he can drink.

Instead, he gets a face full of trench coat, flapping opulently behind a figure hidden by blinding light. When Bobby squints his eyes and cups his hand to shield his face, he can just barely make out the figure. He almost doesn't believe it.

"Castiel?"

"Hello Bobby." Castiel says, not at all expanding on his sudden appearance or his recent whereabouts. He does, however, see fit to tap both Bobby and the kid, magic-ing them clean. Still, Bobby's has questions.

"What in the _hell_ are you doing here?"

Castiel, in two completely separate motions, as if he were a robot with axles for left-and-right and up-and-down rotations, cocks his head to the side and then looks down. The red of the flames feel as if they're growing, reflecting against Castiel's eyes.

Staring at the Flamers with a look of great consternation, Castiel says, "I have come to retrieve you." Then, his gaze sweeps along to look at the kid, who is currently snoring loudly into Bobby's shoulder.

"And your friend," Castiel adds on.

Bobby opens his mouth to respond and then sincerely wishes he hadn't.

* * *

Dean wakes up before the sun is out.

He's got this internal clock thing to a science now and he's way more on top of things than he's ever been. He's always got plans and backup plans and researches all of the things he should know before he sets out on a hunt. Sometimes he even thinks things through. It's all a part of living through the end of the world, especially when you're on your own like Dean is.

The best part of any of this is that Dean's burdens are about as heavy as a single piece of paper. He fights for what he wants, he eats what he wants, he leaves when he wants. It's just him and the Impala.

All Dean has to do is rub away the eye gunk that comes from sleep and then he can hop into his baby, ready for more "The end is nigh!" and "I told you so, you heathens!" signs along the way and Metallica blaring as loud as he wants.

* * *

"W's goin' on- AHHHHHHHHH! Stay back you fiend!"

Garth has just awoken to the most befuddling situation he's been in all week. Last time he checked, he was hanging out with his new best friend in a tree, watching out for the nasty pairing of flames and pointy body parts on the 11 Flamers set on attacking them.

Here he is though, not in a tree and not entirely sure what he even means when he refers to 'here.'

The only thing Garth is certain of right now is that there is some sort of mystical being standing right in front of him and Bobby. He- It looks bird like for all that it is cocking its head to the side and piercing Garth and Bobby with what must be some sort of persuasion mojo via stunning blue eyes. Garth can feel the power behind that stare, weakening his knees and filling his mind with elevator music.

"Alakazam!" Garth puts forth all of his good intents and spritzes the humanoid beast with holy water, his other hand finding its way towards Bobby's chest, where said hand has placed itself in order to push Bobby protectively behind Garth.

Garth is ready to fight for his and Bobby's life, to face off against the evil he has fought so hard against from way back when (like, two months ago) starting in the days of his dentist practitioner career and when the first supernatural thing he ever came across was winged and holding the tooth of one of his patients in its grubby wand wielding hand. Garth will die to do what's right, and what's right is to protect the average apocalypse going citizen from supernatural beings.

What Garth is not expecting is for Bobby to smack him on the back of his head and tiredly say to the foul creature, "Castiel, this here is Garth Fitzgerald and he's the idgit who near got me killed."

**SOL**

It turns out that Bobby is a hunter.

Garth didn't think it was at all obvious. He figures that there's probably a fair amount of grizzled, war torn guys that like to spend their time in the woods and know it's in their best interest to avoid Flamers heading straight for them. Especially these days, most people know about creepy crawlers. How was Garth supposed to have even guessed at Bobby's day job?

Doesn't matter much, because Garth only figured this out after having been magically transported to somewhere not arboreal. He had paid dearly for this perfectly innocent misinterpretation of just exactly who Bobby is when Garth had exclaimed, "You're a hunter?" and was gifted with the toughest glare he's ever come across (and he's faced off against ghosts!).

Now, Garth, Bobby, and Castiel are is an abandoned warehouse of some sort. If Castiel "an angel of the Lord" Trench Coat is as reliable of a source as Bobby claims, the building is located on the outskirts of Nevada.

Garth likes for things to be sweet and simple, like his mama used to say he was. This is not like that. Not even a little.

Somehow, good 'ol fairy killing Garth has just been upgraded to sidekick's sidekick in facing down the end of the world. How does he figure this?

Well, Castiel and Bobby left Garth floundering when they began talking about prophecies, Hellish and Heavenly battles, angels!, and Dean. What's a Dean? Garth has no idea, but it sounds kind of cuddly. Dean. Glean. Teen. Bean. Jelly bean. See?

So yeah, Garth has maybe just a little bit given up on thinking too hard about everything that those two wild kids are talking about, but rather, is now taking it easy down here on the cement flooring.

Garth figures that when he needs to be involved, they'll involve him and then he will lend a helping hand to Bobby, the trusty wise old man of this saga. Because if Garth knows anything, it's that Bobby is a good guy and he won't lead Garth wrong.

Until then, Garth's just going to lay spread eagle on the floor, watching as the overhead light swings in lazy circles and wondering if there's enough dirt on the floor to make dirt angels.

* * *

Dean drives.

Of all the things gone to hell, some things always stay the same. Roads are one of those things. That's not to say that some roads aren't covered in bodies and weird fluids that you best avoid if you want to keep your sanity, but there's not much about paved tar that calls for monstrous destruction.

Another thing is money- it makes the world go round. Without his trusty greenbacks by his side, Dean would be long ago sunken into a pie deprivation induced coma. Also, he wouldn't have had any places to stay at or beer to drink when all he needed were walls on all sides and quiet thoughts to keep the bad stuff from edging him closer to death.

Then there are the people. Sure, they're harder, but they all still need saving. The life of a hunter is unlike anything else, because it's a mix of blood thirst and being a martyr, and you can't be like that just because you should. Almost a year worth of nightmarish horrors ain't enough to turn people towards a bleak reality the likes of which Dean's had a lifetime to get to know.

* * *

"What the hell Cas?!"

So, Dean had arrived at Nevada on the second day of his trip, skirting around territories he's heard are filled with either way too many monsters or way too many fools- people call them "gangs" or "bandits," but all Dean thinks is that they're gun wielding buffoons who more than likely would scratch up his sweet ride- and drooling over what his nights in Nevada will involve. Take a guess at what he means; starts with a 'P,' rhymes with destitute.

All of this was abruptly ruined, taken from Dean and shoved into the place in his mind that he calls 'things that can't ever be,' when Dean broke into the demons' lair and came face to face with something not demonic. Castiel, Bobby, and some weirdo rolling around on the floor.

Which brings him back to his point: "What the hell Cas?!"

"Dean. I am…" There is a definite pause after that in which Castiel considers his next choice of words. He decides upon, "pleased that you have made it."

"Pleased? Cas, what the hell?"

Castiel quirks his head, frown softening into what is almost a smile. He says, sounding way more peaceful than Dean feels, "I believe you said that already."

This is when Bobby takes a step forward, interrupting whatever Dean might have said next (which most likely would have involved some variation of asking 'what the hell?'.).

"Well _boy_, about time you got your scrawny ass to my part of the end of the world." As much as Dean is scowling, Bobby scowls deeper and better. The emphasis on 'boy' is the icing on the Grinch styled cake.

At that, Dean deflates. Dean may not have ever wanted to have this meeting, but it doesn't change the fact that Bobby is the closest thing to a father that Dean will ever have.

All that is left to say is, "Hi Bobby."

**SOL**

The guys put their heads together, each adding their input.

As Castiel explains it, he had sensed a sudden rise in demonic activity in the West. "A disturbance in the force" Dean helpful restates. He receives an emphatic hive five from Garth for this, though Bobby and Castiel appear none too impressed. Dean goes on to mention that he had been attacked by a demon, though he does fail to mention the specifics- namely, the fact that the demon had been wearing hiking shorts and leading Dean around like a lost puppy for hours on end.

Now Bobby- Bobby had no idea the demons were back and he lets everyone know this by saying, "You mean to tell me that it's the end of the world and those black eyed bastards are making their dramatic entrance _now_?"

Garth, well. He's a sweet boy, eager and willing to risk his safety, but his abilities go about as far as incredulously questioning everything and then he's done.

Take, for instance:

""This means the lights are on downstairs. Someone must be running the show."

"You mean Hell is real?"

"You're probably right, Dean. The question is- which stubborn son of a bitch is powerful enough to get things back in working order?"

"Ah hell, what if it's Lilith?"

"…Lilith is dead. Dean."

"Who's Lilith?"

"What the hell Cas?! Why didn't you bring that up earlier?"

"_Who's Lilith?" _

"I was not made aware of this until yesterday."

It is at this point that the industrial sized rolling door (think: garage door, but for warehouses) begins to open. The door makes a slow, creaking noise with every inch it is raised and sunlight, a blinding mood killer, rushes through the opening.

There are two outlines. Human, or, at least, human shaped. They're leaning towards each other and their body language clues in the four bros (even Garth) on the fact that the figures are talking. One of them turns and makes a sweeping gesture with his head, as if to inspect the warehouse. His eyes are black.

The four bros jump into action then.

Dean rushes in- demon-killing knife at the ready. Castiel strides towards them, as if to give Dean time enough to shine. Garth follows suit, blithely and with arms swinging in similar fashion. Bobby notices this and aborts his own plan of attack to grab Garth by a chunk of hair and pull him to the sidelines.

Of course, it is not generally with much ease that a demon lair can be infiltrated and commandeered. Such is the case now as well.

_It's a trap._

Dean is tackled to the side by an unseen trio of demons. Garth and Bobby are their own worst enemies, fighting with and distracting each other up until the point where a very bored, tired looking demon walks up to them and clunks their heads together. Castiel is rooted in place, stopped a couple of yards away from Dean's spot.

All in all, it is a good day to be a demon.

* * *

A warehouse. Well, it is not a desirable place to be. It is big, as in, the echoes run along walls like rats skittering in the piping. It is dark and dank. The cold is somehow worse here than even on a plane of ice and snow. Perhaps it is because it feels more like an evil chill creeping in, clouding along the floor and expanding, touching skin with frozen fingertips. A warehouse is like an attack.

And then there are the demons. They are worse than a warehouse and they are vicious, _vindictive_.

Above all, there is no particular love held within this place for a Winchester and his allies.

Bobby comes to first. Or at least, he's the first fool enough to open his eyes. He would curse his lapse in intelligence, but it's a little too late for that.

"Well. Seems like the geezer is the first of the Scooby gang to pop up. Feeling chatty?"

_What a numbskull_. Bobby may feel worry over impending doom and torture, but that doesn't mean he's not still present of mind enough to notice when someone's seen too many action movies.

Then again, action films don't have a tendency to stick a knife to your throat. It's not the demon-killing knife, but that doesn't really mean much considering that a normal knife will work just fine against Bobby.

"What do you want?" That's Bobby asking.

"Why don't you unglue your tongue from your mouth and let loose some of those dirty, little secrets I know you've got rattling around in there?"

Bobby snorts. "I don't think so."

The demon only cocks its head to the side, and asks again.

"What are they planning?"

Bobby does happen to be being held and knifepoint, so he feels inclined to make this conversation last. He says, "They?"

The knife sticks him a little. Just enough to let on drop of blood fall onto the front of his shirt.

"The. Angels." The demon lets the words spill out, honey sweet and deadly.

Bobby resists the urge to gulp. Instead, he keeps his voice cantankerous and firm.

"Oh. Those holy jackasses. Nope, don't know nothing about their plans."

The knife digs a little bit deeper. This is the point where Bobby's comfort level reaches mildly not comfortable. Also, Bobby's doesn't think the demon knows too much about the 'Scooby gang' and their affairs. If the demon really wanted any answers, it would already know that Dean would be the one to ask. Not that Bobby's going to make this any easier for the bastard.

"Oy! Over here, ugly!"

Of course, just because Bobby has tactical sense, doesn't mean that Dean isn't going to ruin any chance they have going for them. Dammit.

"I might know a little something about the upstairs' plans!"

Dean's got that look on his face. The one means that he is going to mix a little bit of truth with a whole lot of insults. At the least, Dean with get punched in the face and buy them some time. At the most, Dean will get everybody killed within the next five minutes.

"Ah, Dean. You're up!" Somehow, the demon sounds even deadlier than it did a minute ago.

Bobby lets out a breath. The demon is walking towards Dean, taking the knife too. There's going to be some neck bruising going on for the next few weeks. But hey, at least Bobby still has a neck. You know, for now.

"That's right ugly. Swing that pretty little ass on over to papa." Great, Bobby's stuck in a seedy action movie from the 80s, with plenty of smack talk and sexual harassment. Thank god Bobby's realized that, because it gives him a script to fall back on.

"Don't listen to that idgit! Come back over. Dean won't tell you anything, but I will if you don't hurt the boy."

Dean looks at him in shock. What an idgit. The boy must really think real low of Bobby if Dean thinks Bobby actual means any of the bullshit he just spouted.

There it is. The demon turns to Bobby and is met with a look that says, _Well? You coming?_ And demons for the life of them can't resist temptation, so of course the thing comes walking back over to Bobby. About the same time as the demon decides to head on over to Bobby, Dean straightens up, like he finally gets what's up.

"Boys, boys, boys. Make up your mind. Which of you is going to tell me first?"

Bobby leans back a little bit because the demon is right in his face and its breath smells. Think about it for a second. A demon shoves itself down someone's throat, to take over someone's body and use it as a meat suit, and it's going to what? Brush its teeth? Not likely.

"Shut the hell up Bobby! You're blowing smoke out of your ass and we all know it. You're totally out of the loop. You have been ever since the end of the world started!"

There's Dean, a potent mixture of sharp and helpful. While Dean does manage to ensnare the demon into another round of 'Who's Got the Answers?,' Dean's also bringing forward some dirty laundry. Honestly, the idgit is going to give Bobby whiplash. That boy is the most goodhearted, cruel son of a bitch Bobby knows.

"Hey guys! I think I figured out how this demon fighting stuff works!"

Somehow, Garth has escaped the bindings of nylon rope and is now wielding Dean's precious knife of mystical properties… Wielding may be too generous of a word. He's just kind of jabbing in a way that's closer to a little boy playing pirate. But still, the knife is deadly to demons and you just have stick it in to get results (hehe).

Garth skitters over to the demon, who is actually just kind of starting dumbly at Garth.

Bobby sees the moment when this becomes serious for Garth. It's like time stops, for just one, short, vital second. This is when Garth straightens up and looks the demon straight in the eyes. What the kid sees, Bobby doesn't know. All Bobby does know is that Garth has never seen a demon before tonight and Garth's got an awfully steep learning curve to climb within the next few seconds.

The second passes and Garth is moving. He thrusts with the knife, plunging it into the meat suit's thigh. And the demon is like a storm- lightning, bright and lighting up its innards, and thunder, black billowing clouds. The person, the actual living, breathing person trapped inside seems to come alive. The person is screaming out demon and her eyes look alive. Bloodshot and shedding tears.

So here they are. There's a traumatized girl in the middle of a warehouse, who they're probably going to have to traumatize more if they want any answers. Dean and Bobby are still tied up, Castiel is nowhere in sight, and Garth just saved the day.

* * *

**I didn't want to spoil anything, so I'm writing it here: **

**Garth just stabbed a meat suit with the demon-killing knife and the demon didn't die. Here's my reasoning: The boys kill the host every time they kill a demon. If they were able to avoid killing the host (by stabbing them in the leg, arm, etc.), but still kill the demon, wouldn't they do that all the time? **

**Anyways, sorry if I'm wrong, but the chapter's already done, so too late now!**


End file.
